


The Pleasure Room

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Amazon Sex Slave AU, Breeding, Captivity, Dubious Consent, F/M, Impregnation, Multi, but in a fun way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11752947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: From the valar_morekinks prompt: Jon/Mary, Amazon AU - they capture young men as they need to continue their line.





	1. Baiting the Hook - Jon/Jeyne Westerling

**Author's Note:**

> This is complete crack and somewhat morally questionable, and yet here we are. If you're worried about the dub-con part, let me assure you that Jon's super into it.

In retrospect, he realizes they'd started him off easy. Probably to lull him into complacence, or set him at ease. The girl who'd come to him had been small and sweet, shy, with chestnut brown hair and a heart-shaped face and eyes so round and doe-like he'd wanted instantly to protect her, even though he was the one who'd been knocked out and abducted and locked up in a room that looked like something out of the most expensive brothel in the world, all pillows and candles and silks.

She'd apologized to him, said she had no choice in being here with him, and he'd believed her. Stupid. But also probably worth it.

Her name was Jeyne. It had taken her so little to convince him, he should be ashamed of himself, but Gods, he'd wanted her too much, wanted any woman too much. It had been so long, almost forever, and the one thing he'd missed in his life more than anything was the sweet, hot, intoxicating pleasure of lying with a woman. So when she told him what must be done, when she spoke of lying with him and getting herself with child, when she stepped close and her breasts pressed soft and sweet against his chest as she stretched on tip-toe to kiss him, all he'd been able to do was kiss her back.

Making love to her was like coming home. Every bit of her tasted better than the richest food or the finest wine, and he'd taken his time, covering every inch of her with lips and tongue until she quivered like a rosebud in a storm. She'd gasped when he spread her thighs and pushed his face as far into her cunt as he could manage. Such a thing was hardly needed to produce a child, but she hadn't objected; she'd only spread her legs wider and urged his face against her as she peaked three times. He would have happily pushed her towards three more -- Gods, but he had missed this! -- but she'd yanked and pulled at him, begging him with girlish whines and whimpers.

"Please," she'd mewled. "Now, I need you inside me now, give me a babe."

It had been like pitch on a bonfire. Jon fucked her with none of the restraint such a delicate girl deserved, but she matched him for every thrust, dug her nails into his buttocks and encouraged him with throaty demands. One last shred of self-preservation made him try to pull away and spill over her belly and tits, but she refused to let him go. Jeyne was stronger than she looked. So instead he'd spilled his seed deep inside her and prayed for something he could not name.

Many more times in the night he took her, sometimes at her urging and sometimes, more shamefully, at his own. Each time her responsiveness only grew and by the dawn's light, he was half in love with her. She stayed with him for three days, each moment spent kissing and touching and fucking each other until each was sore.

She'd left one morning while he slept, insensate and exhausted. For nearly a week, Jon had been left alone, seeing no one, even his food left on a tray in the small hours of the morning when he slept most heavily. His only company had been the books stacked carelessly in the corner of the room, dusty tomes full of the history of a people Jon had never heard of. But now there are sounds in the hall, the soft music of a woman's voice and the jangle of a key in a lock, and Jon's ashamed that he's already growing hard, imagining Jeyne just beyond the door, imagining all the things he'll do with and to her this night, unable to remember himself as the prisoner that he is. But the woman who enters in a loose, floor-length robe is a stranger to him.

"You're not-" he blurts before regaining control.

"Jeyne?" she finishes, cocking a dark brow at him. The smile on her face is teasing, wicked, the sort of smile that makes a thousand promises. Then she drops the robe to stand nude before him and Jon can see that her body stands behind every promise. From a drawer in the breakfront beside the door, she produces a pair of manacles, her smile even more wicked than before. To his dismay, his cock only hardens further. "Alas for you, I am not Jeyne. I am Arianne. And I have a great many plans for you, Jon Snow."

It's all Jon can do not to whimper aloud.


	2. Pleasure Harder - Jon/Arianne Martell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the valar_morekinks prompt: Jon/Mary, Amazon AU - they capture young men as they need to continue their line.

The problem is, she talks. A lot. So far, Arianne hasn’t been at a loss for things to say and almost all of it is horribly filthy and painfully arousing. Jon could maybe withstand the sight of her body, he could possibly resist her touch if he tried his very hardest, but he’s helpless against her sharp, obscene tongue.

It should be the restraints he’s helpless against. They fix his wrists above his head, loose enough that he isn’t uncomfortable but tight enough that he can’t move much. Jon’s never been very good at situations where he has no control, but something about this is different. And that something is Arianne, who is currently kneeling between his spread legs and looking at his hard cock with patent admiration and frank hunger.

“You’re a lovely big boy, aren’t you?” she coos. It should sound patronizing, but instead it sounds excruciatingly appealing and deeply, profoundly flattering. Jon shouldn’t care that some woman he’s never met -- who’s currently keeping him locked in a room for use as a stud, no less -- thinks about his cock. Gods help him, though, he does, and inwardly he preens at her open approval. “Mmm,” she purrs, raking her nails none too gently down his bare thighs and leaving faint red welts that sting in a way that only heightens his arousal. “Can’t wait to get my cunt around that lovely cock of yours. What do you think, darling? Do you want your cock in me? Want to split me in two with it and come inside me and fuck a babe into me?”

“ _Gods_.” Jon doesn’t intend to speak but the word explodes out of him, her crude vulgarity acting on him like wildfire. Her talk of a babe taps something deep inside him, just as it had with Jeyne, a well-buried longing he’s ignored for longer than he can remember. A babe. It’s not something he’d ever let himself hope for, not after Ygritte. That road had been barred to him, his life nothing more than duty and service and cold nights with only Ghost for company. Yet now here is this woman, a woman of such earthy sexuality that she practically makes his mouth water, and she speaks to his oldest, most vulnerable desire. It sparks an urge to protect himself even as he strains towards her, wanting to feel her body on his. She takes his hesitation as something else.

“Not convinced yet? Perhaps I can assist you…”

Before he knows what she’s about, she’s shifted to lie on her belly between his thighs. He can see the dark, rumpled silk of her hair over her back, the smooth rise of her arse, the nearly girlish kick and sway of her delicate feet. And above all, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes, pulling his gaze to hers for several long moments and keeping it as she takes his desperate, straining cock in her hand.

“Do you taste as good as you look, my pet?” Her hand slides slowly up, over the tip of his cock, and then down in one smooth, twisting motion. Jon nearly whimpers. _You can taste it,_ he wants to tell her. _Taste it, taste me, I want you to._ She would smile if he did, like a cat with its cream. Some small piece of honor lets him hold his tongue though.

At least until she lowers her head, her eyes holding his fast the whole time, and slowly, so slowly, engulfs the head of his cock in her mouth and begins to suck.

“Gods!” he blurts again, followed by an incoherent sound. The restraints rattle as he instinctively jerks his arms, wanting to spear his fingers through her hair, to touch her and encourage her and never let her stop. It has been so long. So very long. The inside of her mouth is like a furnace and it’s all he can do to keep from bucking up wildly at her, fucking her mouth the way he wants to fuck her body. But though wildness nearly consumes him, his better instincts hold him back, not letting him ill use a woman in such a way, no matter that she takes him against his will. Well. Not entirely against his will. Or possibly at all, but Jon won’t let himself consider that. He probably wouldn’t like the conclusion.

She sucks deeply at the head of his cock, her cheeks hollowing, her hands working his shaft from the base to her mouth, first in slow strokes, then fast, then slow again. It’s nearly enough to unman him. Not since he was a boy touching his first woman has he felt so unhinged. Just as he fears he’ll spend in her mouth like a callow youth, she pulls away, lips as wet as his cock, and squeezes her fingers under the head with a pressure just short of gentle. The need to spill abates, but then she takes him in her mouth again and raises him to the same fever pitch, only to repeat the same trick. Again and again, she brings him to the cusp only to stave it off. Jon wants to whimper, to beg, to plead with her for something he can’t name, but she’s merciless, only looking at him with deeper, more wicked smiles each time.

Finally, when he’s on the verge of losing his mind, she looses his cock from her mouth with a wet pop. “I don’t think I can wait any longer,” she tells him. A thumb is dragged across her lower lip, and then slipped into her mouth to suck clean. “Can you?”

Jon doesn’t answer. He fears he might babble all manner of shameful things. Perhaps it’s the restraints that heighten everything to a fevered desperation, but he truly thinks he might perish if he doesn’t get inside her soon. She rises her to knees and he expects her to crawl forward and mount him; he couldn’t deny that he’s anticipating the view of her tits nearly as much as he’s anticipating being inside her. But then she surprises him, turning before throwing a leg over his hips and settling with her arse facing him. Then she begins to move.

As with everything else with her, it’s painfully intense and potent. She moves sinuously, sliding up slow and squeezing him with secret, inner muscles before pushing back down and beginning the cycle again. Her body is a sculpture, all extravagant lines and tempting shadows. Her back narrows at her waist and then flares out into an inverted heart shape at her hips and bum. Jon is nearly glad his hands are bound, so that he can’t betray himself by reaching out and sinking his fingers into those hips, guiding her, holding her for the shallow thrusts that he can’t help making. As if reading his thoughts, she turns to peek over her shoulder, her smile playful and impish and devastating. It breaks his last remaining shred of control and he pushes up on his heels, spilling into her with abandon, his back arched and his jaw clenched so tightly his head will surely ache later. Arianne rewards him with breathy moans and coos, her hips still moving, her muscles gripping and squeezing him. Then she reaches a small hand down to touch herself. Her knuckles rub the base of his cock as she brings herself to completion and he really thinks he might pass out with the length and force of his orgasm. Jon has never had anyone take such blatant, erotic pleasure in his body, using him completely as a tool in the most potent way. If this is the first night, he’s not sure he’ll survive what follows.

She giggles after her shudders subside. The sound is surprisingly girlish and sweet. She’s a conundrum, this girl. Jon’s dismayed at how much he wants to unravel the puzzle she presents. When he slips out of her, she turns and stretches out alongside him. Once more Jon is glad his arms are held above his head. Otherwise he might do something stupid and embrace her or tuck her to his side like she’s his lover rather than his captor. Then she kisses him, the taste of him still on her lips and tongue, and he’d rather his arms were free for just that. Gods, but he is a fool.

“Mmm, that was a lovely start, don’t you think?” she asks. _Start_. Gods. A fool and a dead man, but at the moment, also a happy one.


	3. Three's Company - Jon/Sansa/Margaery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the valar_morekinks prompt: Jon/Mary, Amazon AU - they capture young men as they need to continue their line.

At first, it seems to be nothing more than a dream. A dream more torrid than those Jon is accustomed to having, to be sure, one of slick flesh and eager tongues and soft cries of pleasure. The sort of dream that could make him want to sleep forever. Then he opens his eyes and realizes it’s no dream and that he’d never want to sleep through such a thing.

The two of them look younger in the light of day than they had the night before, when they’d been limned in firelight and painted with shadow. It hasn’t been even half a day but their names are already burned into his brain. He called them out often enough, heard them call to each other, _Sansa_ , _Margaery_ , as the three of them shared in something Jon had never considered even in his most fevered imaginations. He’d also never considered what’s beside him now. 

Everything about Sansa is spread gloriously, her copper-bright hair across the pillow, her arms across the bed, her legs as Margaery laps and sucks between them with obvious enjoyment. Sansa’s lips are parted as she pants in equally obvious enjoyment. Then her eyes open and see him watching, and her lips round in surprise.

“ _Oh_ , Jon. We woke you.” There’s something like chagrin on Sansa’s face. Her legs twitch as if she might try to close them, but Margaery makes a warning sound and moves her mouth in a way so obscene, Jon can’t help but groan in tandem with Sansa as she shudders and lets her knees part even more. Her head falls back to the pillow, an expression of rapture on her face. She’s so lovely and elegant, Jon might think her a statue of a goddess carved from marble but for the color in her cheeks and on her lips, the flush on her heaving chest and quivering belly, the vibrant life in her barest sound and movement.

She’d been a maiden when she came to his chambers the night before, something Margaery had told him with great relish, speaking with a voice like honey as she’d reached into his loose trousers and stroked his cock to life. “She’s never known the touch of a man,” Margaery had said, her own touch sure and practiced as she fondled him. “But she must. We all must, to ensure our people survive. Would you let such a girl go to some captured brute who wouldn’t show her the care you could?”

Jon hadn’t asked how she knew he wasn’t just such a brute. Either it was meant as nothing more than an enticement or Jeyne and Arianne had been more than willing to share the details of their own time with him, but it made no difference. Jon was hooked like a fish on a line the moment they’d walked in the door, Margaery sweetly seductive and Sansa shy and curious. A maid. A maid sent by her sisters to be deflowered. 

A maid to a man’s touch, yes, but not to other acts of love given the intimate familiarity between her and Margaery now. This is something they have unquestionably done before. Sansa spears her fingers through Margaery’s hair and works her hips towards Margaery’s face with none of the shyness but all the enthusiasm she’d shown last night with him. His ego had been all too willing to take her keen responsiveness as a mark of his skill, even when Sansa had cried out and searched for Margaery’s mouth with her own. It had been too easy to lose himself in her.

Beside him, Sansa stiffens and whimpers as she comes. Her hand finds his and clutches it with more strength than he’d have thought she possessed if he hadn’t felt it last night as he’d made love to her. He doesn’t have to look at himself in a mirror to know she’s left bruises all over his arms and back. It’s part of what had made him so mindless over her. He supposes he has Margaery to thank for that, at least in part. She seems skilled – and accustomed – in working Sansa into quite a state.

Margaery looks up at him now, her lips slick and glistening in the morning light and curved into a feline smile. “It’s her favorite way to wake up,” she says, as if they’re discussing a morning repast rather than a thorough tonguing. Jon swallows.

“I can see that,” he manages weakly. Margaery’s smile turns wicked, impish. Playful, even.

“It’s rather mine as well,” she confides, wrinkling her nose in a girlish gesture so unlike her otherwise carefully mannered demeanor that Jon feels something thrum in his chest. 

“Giving?” he asks in a rasp. As if it belongs to someone else, he watches his hand lift to toy with the hair at her temple, testing it between his fingertips before tucking it behind her ear. “Or receiving?”

“That depends on if you’re offering,” she says sweetly. Jon’s cock is hard and ready. They’d shared only incidental touches the night before; his focus had been on Sansa, as had Margaery’s. An image comes to him of the two of them curled facing each other, hands and mouths tangling lazily as Jon pushed slowly into Sansa from behind, claiming her a second time after having spilled in her almost instantly the first time. Now all he wonders is what Margaery tastes like, how it would feel to be inside her. The memory of how he came to be here is dim and only grows more so with each night, each girl; it’s impossible to feel like a prisoner with such women in his bed. Still, he makes the attempt, mostly to assuage his guilt at how thoroughly he’s surrendered himself. 

“Do I have a choice?”

Margaery laughs, the bright sound ringing in his ears. “With us? Always. I’ve never had to force a man yet, Jon Snow. And Sansa…well, you can imagine she won’t need to either.”

The hot jealousy fills him in a heartbeat. The lustful ache of imagining Sansa with another man is tempered by the territorial violence he feels at the thought. Jon scowls. He hadn’t known to guard against such feelings; never has he been the first and only man before. Part of her belongs to him, as part of him belongs to her.

Margaery’s brows are raised in pleased surprise. It’s how he knows the roil of his thoughts shows on his face. When he glances towards Sansa, he can tell she sees it as well, but her expression is far softer than Margaery’s. It threatens to upend something within him, so he pushes his untidy feelings aside and looks back to Margaery.

“Then I am most definitely offering.” _Anything_ , he doesn’t say. _Everything. Whatever you could possibly desire._

Without a word, Margaery shifts onto her knees, head lowered again between Sansa’s legs. She gives him one significant look, wiggles her hips, and then extends her tongue in a long, slow lap that makes Sansa moan and drop her knees farther to each side. So quickly that he would be embarrassed about his haste in any other situation, Jon stands and moves to the end of the bed. The view he’s presented with is so fetching – Sansa spread so gloriously, Margaery with her pert arse in the air, enticing him to take what she so sweetly offers – that for a moment he can only stare like a green boy, wondering if he really is just dreaming.

If it’s only a dream, Jon plans to experience it to the fullest. 

Margaery makes a high, needy sound when he buries his face against her cunt, sliding his tongue flat over her before delving and teasing with the tip of it. _Delicious_ , he thinks in a daze, and she truly is, as sweet and intoxicating as any wine. Another time he would settle here for an hour at least, tasting and exploring her so thoroughly that she’d be like to push him away before he was through, but he wants her too much right now – wants to see her with Sansa too much – so as soon as her first shudders of response begin to fade, he is climbing onto the mattress behind her, his knees set inside hers and one hand on her hip as he guides himself inside her with the other. He groans at the feel of her, at the sight of her still working her face between Sansa’s thighs, at Sansa watching him with darkened, hazy eyes as she rolls the peak of her own breast between her fingertips. It’s enough to make a man weep. Jon thinks he would come in little more than a heartbeat if it weren’t for how much he wants to savor this. Instead he holds still for a long moment, simply feeling Margaery warm and wet around him, memorizing the scene before him. He should feel guilt at what he’s become here, at how wretched and willing he’s been with all these women who kidnapped him to be nothing more than a breeder. Guilt is the farthest thing from his mind.

“Will you only tease?” Margaery gasps, pulling her mouth away from Sansa and twisting to look at him over her shoulder. “Or will you make good on…” she pauses and pushes her hips back, tightening around him so adeptly that he nearly spills right then and there, “this.”

Jon’s only answer is a groan and the movement of his hips as he withdraws and pushes easily into her again, and again, until he’s set up a driving rhythm that rocks her into Sansa roughly enough that she leaves off her ministrations and drops her forehead to Sansa’s belly. Quickly, Sansa wriggles down until she’s beneath Margaery, her legs hooked over Margaery’s thighs and her heels brushing Jon’s calves. When she draws Margaery’s face to hers and takes her mouth in a kiss, there’s a measure of comfort in it, something soothing and sweet. It’s yet another picture Jon intends to remember. And then Sansa’s hand slips down between them to coax Margaery to her peak, her knuckles brushing Jon’s cock as he thrusts, and he loses every bit of sense and control he’s ever had, fucking into Margaery like a man possessed and peaking with a hoarse shout before collapsing to the side and dragging her with him. His breath comes in rasps he can hear even over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Just as he registers that Sansa’s fingers are still moving, Margaery gasps and tightens around him, shaking in her pleasure.

They lie together for a while, the three of them, limbs everywhere. Jon even slips into a doze for a bit, his softened cock still inside Margaery. It’s strangely tender, something Jon wouldn’t have expected he could think of such a situation. He's imagining he could fall fully into sleep and wake still inside Margaery to start all over again, when Sansa stirs and yawns, her tongue a kittenish curl of pink.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she says happily. Margaery murmurs a questioning sound as she tugs Sansa closer with an arm around her waist. “This is my favorite way to wake up.”

Jon laughs. He can’t help it. What a strange thing his life has become.


End file.
